When The Levee Breaks
by smash interrupted
Summary: In a way, Soap was to him what he was to MacMillan, and where MacMillan had put himself on the line to protect Price when he was blacklisted, Price was willing to go to the same lengths for Soap. Granted, putting up with his grumpy arse wasn't necessarily on the same scale, but the intentions were in the same vein. AU. Angst.
1. Part 1

Warnings: _**AU. Swearing.  
**_

* * *

When The Levee Breaks  
Part 1/10

* * *

'_What's the diagnosis?' Price asked, quietly, as he stood from his seat. 'Is he alive?'_

_Across from him, the surgeon who'd just slipped out of the theatre removed his mask, his expression frustratingly blank. 'He is alive,' he said after a moment, voice oddly sombre for relatively good news. 'But he isn't out of the woods yet. We've done what we can for now, but it appears as though he has suffered extensive damage to the thoracic and lumbar regions of his spine. Unfortunately there is little we can do for such injuries.'_

_Price frowned, understanding that what was being said was bad, but not quite grasping anything beyond that. 'In English, Doc, I don't understand medical jargon.'_

_The surgeon sighed, rubbing his neck as he tried to formulate a response. For someone who had spent a majority of his higher education and career learning to speak in scientific terms, it was often difficult translating it into something else. 'In short, he has severely injured both his upper and lower back. Right now we can't fully determine the degree of damage, but at the very least I would expect him to lose at least some, if not all, motor function in his lower extremities.'_

_There was a minute or so of silence as Price let the information sink in, his mind quickly linking 'back injury' to the most common consequence. When he did speak, it was with forced control, his heart twisting at the thought of how devastated Soap would be if he made it through. 'You're saying he'll be paralysed?' _

'…_Not completely, no. But I doubt he will ever walk again.'_

* * *

'Soap,' Price called, announcing his presence in the small, one-person ward as he came through the door. 'Wake up. We're leaving.'

Footsteps sounded as he crossed the room, hand absently jingling the car keys in his pocket. It was late afternoon and the fading sunlight was already hidden behind closed curtains. Not bothering to seek permission, he strode past the hospital bed and pulled them open.

Behind him, the almost comatose body jerked, having found the sudden flare of light intolerably offensive. 'Fuck, Price,' the familiar voice, hoarse from weeks of disuse, groaned. 'Don't you bloody knock?'

Securing the tieback in place, Price paused for a moment to watch the bustling streets below him. There was something about the unmitigated chaos of inner-city London that was strangely calming. 'I didn't drag your arse out of Prague so you could spend all day in bed moping. Get moving.'

Soap gave a disparaging snort. 'How the hell do you propose I do that? My legs don't fucking work, do they?'

Experience had given Price the coveted gift of patience when it came to dealing with the man he'd long regarded as a son. Exhaling quietly, he turned around, meeting the man's perpetual scowl with little more than a raised eyebrow. 'You're injured, Soap, not an invalid.'

'I don't know what planet you're living on; Price, but they're the same fucking thing.'

Soap threw back his covers, one hand reaching for the multi-purpose remote on the table beside him. A few seconds later there was a mechanical wail as his bed rose on an incline, allowing him to sit upright without straining himself too much.

Price stayed out of the way as Soap fought with his own weakened body. In the months since the incident, he'd lost a fair percentage of his muscle. Despite the combined efforts of the nursing staff, he'd been neglecting his physical therapy, wasting away on his back as he struggled to come to terms with the events of the last few months.

Eventually Soap pulled away from the supportive pillows at his back and sat independently on his mattress. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, the sudden change of position bringing on a wave of nausea.

It wasn't long before he directed a baleful glance at Price, having realised that the only way he was going to get into the wheelchair beside his bed was if he toppled into it. 'Aren't you going to help me?'

Straightening from where he'd been leaning on the window sill, Price closed the gap between them, reaching out to tug the wheelchair into a more suitable position before nudging the brake on with his foot. 'If you'd keep up with your PT-'

'I don't want a fucking lecture,' Soap interrupted, eyes dark. 'Just get me off this bloody thing.'

They might have held the same rank in their last few years of service, but that didn't curb Price's urge to smack the other man upside the head. Soap might have moved up in the world, but he was still a part of his unit, his responsibility, and someone he had an obligation to look out for.

Irritated, but not particularly willing to start an altercation, Price took a hold of Soap.

'Ready, Soap?'

In answer, Soap gritted his teeth, body tensing like a coiled spring. Price frowned.

'Son?'

Soap shifted a little, grunting. 'Do it.'

Taking a deep breath, Price counted down from three before lifting the younger man out of bed and into his chair, movements quick and well-practised. Once Soap was in the seat, he double checked to make sure he was all right, helping to position his legs so they wouldn't slip off when he moved.

'Stop motherin',' Soap snapped, agitated, as Price reached for a light cotton blanket to cover him with.

'Anyone would think you're a bloody anorexic, Soap,' Price said, matter-of-factly, as he took in the angular bones sticking out from beneath pale skin. 'Do you want people gawking?'

'I don't really give a shit.'

'Of course you don't,' Price shook his head as he bundled up the blanket and tucked it under his arm, just in case Soap changed his mind. 'If you did you'd have at least taken a bath. We'll have to roll the windows down.'

Soap didn't have much to say to that, instead reaching up to scratch the prickly beginnings of his 5 o'clock shadow. Price seemed wholly unrepentant.

'I'll tell you now, son,' he said, shouldering the bag full of Soap's belongings as he made for the door. 'You won't be stinking up my house. I'll hose you down if I have to, but you bloody well won't be feeling sorry for yourself under my roof. Understood?'

The old clock hanging on the wall ticked audibly in the following silence, the two of them having a battle of wills from either side of the room. Soap cracked first, his eyes dropping to Price's collarbone as he disengaged the brake.

'Whatever you say, Price,' he said, more so to appease the man than to actually fall in line. 'I'm just along for the ride.'

Price saw right through him, his years as a high ranking officer having conditioned him to detect veiled dissent. Despite what others thought, donning a Captain's insignia didn't garner him universal respect – it just made those who would insult him that much more creative.

But, like countless times before, Price simply let it slide. In a way, Soap was to him what he was to MacMillan, and where MacMillan had put himself on the line to protect Price when he was blacklisted, Price was willing to go to the same lengths for Soap. Granted, putting up with his grumpy arse wasn't necessarily on the same scale, but the intentions were in the same vein.

'Get a bloody move on then, Soap,' he told the other man after a moment, pausing at the threshold. 'Wallcroft's waiting with the car. He's parked in a permit zone.'

Soap, who had been slowly wheeling after him, his hands now hidden in a pair of black grip gloves, froze in his tracks, fingers closing hard around the wheels to stop them spinning. When he looked up, his expression was tight, lips pressed into a severe line. 'Wallcroft's here?'

'Yes. I got into a scrape last week, lad – the Ute's still in the shop. I've told you this already. Weren't you listening?'

He had been listening – it was hard not to when the room was quiet and there was nothing else to focus on. From what he remembered, Price hadn't mentioned a damn thing about Wallcroft in that conversation.

It was a detail he wouldn't have missed.

Price was one thing. They'd been through hell together, seen each other in the most fucked up situations and pulled each other out. But Wallcroft... Wallcroft was different. Soap hadn't seen him in years, and the thought of his mate seeing him like this… _fuck_.

_He was a fucking cripple, for Christ's sake.  
_  
Soap was pulled somewhat brutally out of his self-deprecating thought process a few seconds later, when Price threw the blanket at him.

It landed inoffensively on his lap, still neatly bundled in a roll. Soap picked it up slowly, calculating, gaze briefly flicking over to his Captain.

Price didn't mention it, instead moving out of his way as he jerked his head meaningfully at the door. 'Come on. I'll race you downstairs.'

Soap paused partway through unravelling the bundle, eyes narrowing dangerously. 'Is that supposed to be a joke?'

'Am I laughing?' Price questioned calmly, the picture of innocence. Soap frowned at him before seeming to accept it, taking a moment to cover his legs, thin and pale as they were, before rolling forward again. As he passed, Price clapped him on the shoulder and winked good-naturedly. 'Go on, son. I'll give you a ten minute head start.'

This time, Soap didn't shrug him off. 'You're a bloody git sometimes…' he muttered, mouth twitching just a little. Price squeezed once before letting go.

'…Old man.'


	2. Part 2

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited and followed :). From a first time writer in the COD fandom, it was a lovely response.

* * *

When The Levee Breaks  
Part 2/10

* * *

'Ground floor,' the automated voice announced over the intercom as the elevator doors slid open. In front of him, an elderly woman pressed herself against the railing, motioning him through.

'After you,' she said kindly.

_Given way to by a little old lady_, he thought. _Fucking hell_.

Soap forced a tight smile onto his face in response. The chair was a magnet for this sort of thing – bringing out sympathy and all kinds of trite pleasantries. Even with months of experience weathering this type of reaction, it didn't get any easier to swallow.

Too disgruntled to offer anything else in the way of common courtesy, he wheeled out into reception.

Price followed in his wake, pausing briefly to utter his thanks on Soap's behalf. The woman accepted it, completely oblivious to the fact that her compassionate gesture had been a major blow to the younger man's pride.

'You're very welcome, dear,' she responded. A moment later and she'd excused herself, leaving Price to jog after his companion.

'That was rude, Soap.'

'If I gave a shit, I wouldn't be so fucking constipated.'

Where Soap had picked up his new affinity with words, Price didn't know. Rolling his eyes up to the heavens, he quietly asked for patience as they headed towards Administration.

The short, plump woman manning the desk glanced up at their approach, fingers habitually tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Despite her slightly frazzled appearance, the nametag pinned to her scrubs identified her as _Dolores Baker, Head Nurse_.

'Hello,' she greeted benignly, eyes flicking past Price to land on the wheelchair-bound Soap. 'Is there something I can help you with?'

'Discharge papers,' Soap grunted, tilting his head back to look at her properly. The movement had become less jarring over the past few weeks, but his neck still gave a painful twinge if he held it there for too long. 'I was told to pick them up here.'

Even though it didn't follow standard protocol, Dolores simply nodded at his request. 'I see. And your name is?'

'John,' he supplied. 'John MacTavish.'

'John MacTavish,' she repeated slowly, tapping a few keys on her computer. After a minute of searching, she pulled up what was presumably his medical record. 'From Orthopaedics?'

'Yes.'

'And Doctor Emery Young is your Orthopedist?'

'Yes.'

'Lovely,' she said, exiting the program. 'Those files should definitely be here. I'll just take a moment while I get them sorted for you.'

'Nice service,' Price commented, taking care to utter it _after _she'd bustled off down the hallway. 'A right sight better than the last time I was here.'

Soap snorted. 'You were a bloody war criminal the last time you were here.'

The older man grimaced at the memory, rubbing his wrist as though he could still feel the phantom touch of restraints. 'That might have had something to do with it…'

'It's over now,' Soap remarked, not particularly interested in delving any further into the topic. Price had borne the brunt of accusation over their actions in the war after they'd gotten home. He'd been in a coma at the time, but from the few snippets the older man had been willing to share, the resulting interrogation hadn't been pretty.

Price made a noncommittal noise in the back of his throat.

It wasn't long before the nurse came hurrying back down the hall with the paperwork in hand. Shooing a younger coworker out of her way, she rounded the desk and passed the papers over to Soap with a smile. 'Here they are,' she said, looking a touch flustered. 'And if I could just get you to sign this release form?'

The woman gave him a clipboard, quickly rattling off a brief summary of what the document contained. Soap listened silently. Giving the sheet a cursory once over, he scrawled his name where the yellow post-it notes prompted him to and then handed it back. 'Is that all..?'

Dolores Baker snapped the clipboard shut, nodding. 'Yes, yes,' she replied. 'Unless there's something else you need?'

'No,' he answered shortly. 'That's it.'

'Then I think we're done,' she said, pausing to push her spectacles back up her nose. 'If you have any questions about anything at all, please feel free to ring the Orthopaedics Ward. The specialist on call will find a spare minute to talk to you. Their number should be – yes, there it is.'

She pointed it out amongst the papers he'd dropped in his lap, apparently having enough of a read on him to know that he wouldn't look for it himself. 'Now, if for some reason you lose this number, you can phone the hospital's main reception and they will transfer you through. Okay?'

Soap dipped his head once in acknowledgement, if only to hurry things along. It might have looked like the world was a few steps ahead of her and she was in a constant rush to keep up, but Dolores Baker had a solid, no-nonsense air about her that said he wasn't leaving until he had _absolutely everything_ he needed.

So for the next five minutes he got a complete run down of the disability services aimed at helping people in his circumstances, complete with directions, locations and recommendations. There were outreach programs, charities, associations, state-run services, rehabilitation courses and disability-friendly vendors included in the list. She was in the middle of telling him about 'kneeling buses' when her pager beeped, cutting her off mid-sentence.

Pulling the black device off the waistband of her pants, she took one look at the screen and cursed. 'I'm sorry, but I have to run. If you want to know anything else, please don't hesitate to give us a call.' Back to looking completely overwhelmed, she offered them a fleeting smile. 'You two have a good day.'

With that, she was gone, hollering at the vacant looking blonde from earlier to take over before vanishing. Soap had just enough time to recognize the flash of pity in the younger girl's eyes as she neared, and then Price's hand was on his shoulder, drawing his attention away.

'Come on,' Price said, motioning toward the exit. 'Wallcroft's probably been towed by now.'

Soap exhaled with a sigh, collecting the documents from his lap and dropping them into the canvas side-bag attached to his chair. As he straightened, hand fumbling with the brake, he noticed that a small scrap of paper had been left behind.

He picked it up.

'_I saw what you did for us on the news_,' it read. '_Thank you._ _Take care and God Bless.'_

'Soap!' Price called, much to the confusion of those around them. There was an impatient inflection in his voice, one that conveyed his standard _'get your arse moving!' _without so many words.

Scowling, Soap tucked the note into his chest pocket, suddenly feeling a little less cold, and did as he was bidden.

* * *

For a majority of his stay, Soap had been housed in the George Perkins ward of St Thomas' hospital. It was on the eleventh floor of the North Wing, facing out over Westminster Bridge Road. He'd never bothered to admire the view. He'd seen it all already.

_'There is nobody on this Earth who has seen **everything**, John. There are only those who think they have.' _

'_Nature, buildings, life, death,' he answered, staring up at the ceiling. 'What else is there to see?' _

Even on his bad days, trapped in the ward with only himself for company, he'd never once tried to open the window. Had never once sought comfort in the familiar sounds of the city below him.

Maybe that was why he stopped, hands clamping down on his wheels so tight they left dents in the black rubber. Late afternoon had faded into early evening. Some of the more cautious drivers had switched on their headlights, not leaving anything to chance in the peak hour traffic.

The sudden, cumulative noise of life unmuted by thick walls and glazed glass was _overwhelming_.

A young couple walked by, chatting amorously, the woman's handbag brushing against his shoulder. Soap jerked at the contact, the pressure behind his temple suddenly dissipating. Scowling in an attempt to hide his unease, he pressed on, eyes scouring the street. Price was already several leagues ahead of him, attention firmly focused elsewhere.

'Price!' Called a familiar voice, so loud that it cut through the din in a way that was reminiscent of a drill sergeant. Ahead, Price raised a hand to signal that he'd heard. Waving back, the man waited for a sizeable gap between cars before jogging across the road.

'Did you get moved on?' Price was asking, mildly curious, as Soap caught up.

Wallcroft hopped up onto the curb, grinning. 'No,' he replied. 'But there was a ticket inspector sniffing around. Figured I'd scarper before I got slapped with another fine.'

Price shook his head. He had a fair idea why Wallcroft, who had a penchant for collecting fines like an enthusiast would stamps, was unwilling to put a foot wrong. 'In trouble with the missus?'

'Oh, aye,' Wallcroft said with a wince. 'Woman's had my bollocks on a leash for months. She's still pissed I bought the Hilux. '

'I told you that was a bad idea, lad.'

'Yeah, yeah – you did.' He replied, sighing. Running a hand through his hair, he quickly changed the subject, gaze flicking over to Soap. Like countless others before him, he couldn't help but look at the damage – curiosity winning out over courtesy. When he finished, he met Soap's eyes, expression empty of the emotions the younger man was used to seeing there. 'It's good to see you, Soap,' was all he said, sticking out a hand in greeting.

Soap took it, giving it a shake. His grip wasn't nearly as firm – a fact that the two of them became instantly aware of. 'You too, mate.'

'I came to see you when you were in a coma,' Wallcroft remarked as they let go. He stepped back to avoid towering over his old friend. 'You looked like shit,' he paused, and then exhaled loftily. 'Actually, you _still_ look like shit.'

Soap blinked, slightly taken aback. Wallcroft had always been a bit of a blunt bastard. Back when Soap was the new F.N.G, he'd been the first to ask about the Mohawk.

_'How the fuck did you get that passed Selection?'_

_Soap paused halfway through stripping down his Browning L9A1, confused. 'Sorry?'_

_'The spikes,' Wallcroft elaborated, gesturing to his own close-cropped hair. 'They can't be inside Regs.'_

_Understanding lit his eyes, but Soap just shrugged. 'Can't say it ever came up, mate.'_

_'You're joking?'_

_'No,' he responded, a steely edge entering his tone. He returned to his task a moment later, clearly signalling that the conversation was over._

_Wallcroft slumped back against the couch, arms resting on his rumpled singlet. 'Right,' he said, sharing an amused look with Griffin. It seemed he had his answer._

The familiarity was almost comforting. Wallcroft was _Wallcroft_ – he wasn't trying to be someone else for Soap's benefit. 'Look who's talking,' Soap said finally, falling into old patterns easily enough. 'At least now you're in with a shot, right?'

Wallcroft barked a laugh. 'Sure,' he agreed, deciding to let it go as Price cleared his throat behind him. The older man wanted to get a move on. Pulling out the keys to his wife's Hyundai Getz, he shifted so that he could face them both. 'Anyway, I've parked down on Royal Street. I can run across and bring the car around if you want?'

'It's fine,' Soap's voice was sharp as he turned down the offer. 'We can… _walk_.'

'Alright,' Wallcroft accepted. 'It's over this way.'

They followed him back down the footpath to the lights. If it hadn't have been for Soap, they probably would have just crossed the road as it was. But with him there, they played life by the rulebook, waiting for the little green man to flash before trudging across.

Soap went as quick as he could manage, straining his muscles to try and keep a good pace. Despite the effort, he started to fade about halfway down the street, arms heavy and trembling from exertion. He hadn't moved this much in a long, long time, and it was showing.

'Are you all right, Soap?' Wallcroft asked, having slowed down to walk alongside him.

Soap forced himself to inhale through his nose in an attempt to regulate his breathing. 'Fine,' he ground out, once he had it under control.

Knowing that Soap would refuse his help if he offered it, Wallcroft watched him struggle for a minute longer before biting the bullet. Stepping up behind him, he took hold of the handles and started to push. He knew he'd cop it as soon as he lent a hand, but he also knew that if he didn't, Price would. And Price had to live with the grumpy shit.

'I said I had it,' Soap snapped.

Wallcroft hunched his shoulders in a bird-shrug. 'Yeah, I know.'

Clenching his jaw hard enough to crack, Soap went quiet, equal parts frustrated and angry as they covered the last hundred metres to the car. The Getz was a bright red, the lower half sporting a thin layer of dust, which they could see clearly in the light of the streetlamp it was parked under. A pair of fluffy, pink dice hung from the rear-view mirror, giving it that feminine touch.

Wallcroft left him alone for a moment, opening the back door to clear a space for him on the seats. Paper was shunted to the side, and a small, perfumed cardigan was tossed into the boot. 'I swear this woman always expects me to clean up after her,' he muttered. Pulling out, he knocked his head on the roof of the car and winced. 'Shit.'

Soap rolled closer, measuring the gap between his chair and the seat. Because they were parked against the curb, there was a chance he could hold onto the grab handle and pull himself in – if he had the upper body strength.

_And he couldn't even push himself a few hundred meters down the bloody street._

_Fuck._

Price was busy putting his gear in the trunk; head bowed as he shifted whatever clutter Wallcroft's wife had left behind to make room. Even though he'd much rather the older man help him out, he wasn't about to vocalise the request for all of them to hear.

'Soap?' Wallcroft said. His careful expression suggested that he knew _exactly_ what the problem was. 'Need a hand, mate?'

Soap turned back, resigned. 'Yeah,' he forced himself to say, swallowing his pride. He wheeled over until he was parallel with the seat and engaged the brake. Beside him, Wallcroft hovered, waiting for instructions. When he was ready, Soap told him what to do, keeping it brief and his voice suitably gruff. The general gist was 'support me, so I don't fall on my arse'. That part seemed to translate well.

Once the man had an arm around him, Soap reached for the grab handle. Lifting himself out of the wheelchair quickly proved to be impossible. He was exhausted. Physically, emotionally – his arms were little more than skin and bone, his resolve crumbling in the face of an insurmountable task. He got himself maybe a few centimetres out of the chair before Wallcroft realised he _really fucking needed help _and slipped out of his supportive role, grip tightening as he took most of the weight. With a guttural grunt, he pulled Soap the rest of the way and swung him into the seat.

It was quick and relatively painless. Wallcroft didn't make a big deal out of it, seeing it as little more than a favour for a friend. But even so, Soap wouldn't look at him for a week.


End file.
